


Forgot in cruel happiness; that even lovers drown

by wcdewilsonn (oceanboys)



Series: Star Trek Songfic and Poetryfic [2]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek AOS, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bottom Kirk, Boys In Love, Chess games as foreplay, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gays in spaaaace, Hurt Spock, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Injuries, Spock is panicking and decides that dicking down his Captain is the best way to deal, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Top Spock, that boy is a bottom.jpeg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 09:52:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13878414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanboys/pseuds/wcdewilsonn
Summary: When his mother died, he had been distraught for weeks, unable to think past the wave of misery and loss her death had drummed up inside him. And here he was, again, grieving for another one he loves, those turbulent emotions wrenching through him, wrecking him; watching Jim’s youthful, bright face lie cold and blank on the biobed in medbay.Jim gets hurt on an away mission. Spock kind-of copes.





	Forgot in cruel happiness; that even lovers drown

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the ‘Star Trek Songfic and Poetryfic' series. The title (and inspiration) comes from W.B. Yeats' poem:  
>  _"A mermaid found a swimming lad,_  
>  Picked him up for her own,  
> Pressed her body to his body,  
> Laughed; and plunging down  
> Forgot in cruel happiness  
> That even lovers drown."
> 
> Enjoy !!

It had supposed to have been a simple diplomatic mission – offer the Federation’s warm hand of alliance and partnership, and beam back onto the Enterprise at 19:00 hours for the next assigned mission. The Class-M planet required no suits or additional gear to walk safely on the planet’s surface, and the humanoid inhabitants had seemed more than willing to accept Jim, Lieutenant Uhura, himself, and the security team.

 

Of course, this is not how it all panned out.

 

The negotiations had originally gone smoothly, Jim employing his charm and wits in attempts to impress and persuade the Kryon ambassador to sign the treaty between the two – the Lieutenant on his right side observing the nature of the Kryon language, and Spock on his left, keeping a close eye on proceedings. Occasionally, in a momentary lapse of control, the half-Vulcan would shift his eyes over to where Jim was sitting, and run them down his form, stare at the crinkles of his smiling eyes, the easy confidence displayed in his entire body, before chastising himself and returning his full attention to the task at hand.

 

A full three hours had passed since they beamed down, and the Kryon decided to take break. Jim, Uhura, and the rest of the away team were tense and hypervigilant; the Kryon were a erratic and volatile species, any movement, phrase or look could offend one of the members seated across the negotiation table. Additionally, Jim and the away team were in need of hydration, as it was considered an offence to drink or eat during discussions of import, therefore negating the usual intake of liquids the Humans would usually consume. While Spock was not affected by this – he was half-Vulcan, after all – he could see the signs of thirst on his crewmember’s faces, and sprung into action.

 

“Captain.” He murmured, once the Kryon ambassador and members of his table had taken their brief leave. “I must insist that you replenish your liquids; it has been approximately four-point-three hours since your last drink, and whilst I am unaware of how recently Lieutenant Uhura and the security team have had any water, three hours is long enough without adequate intake.”

 

Jim had smiled at him, his tired eyes dropping down to Spock’s lips before flicking back up to look at Spock directly. “Thank you, Commander. I’ll drink once everyone has – you too, Spock.”

 

Spock repressed the urge to sigh. Let it be known that James Kirk was a selfless man whom cared deeply about his crew – enough to ignore his own needs to make sure other’s were taken care of first. He did, however, raise an eyebrow at his Captain, before nodding and stepping back from where Jim was seated. Jim gave the order for his team to take a drink of water from their bottles, watching closely, before finally lifting his own bottle and take four, long gulps from it.

 

(Later, Spock would wonder why this detail was noted, and why, exactly, his gaze had been drawn and caught by the sight of Jim swallowing, and his pink lips wrapped around the bottle’s opening.)

 

The Kryon party returned to the room, and the away team quickly put away their bottles to resume talks, but not before an unsettling tension fell upon the room. Spock’s body tensed slightly, and could see that the rest of the away team was as equally uneased by the sudden change in atmosphere. While they had not been requested to remove or discard their phasers, they were still outnumbered six to nine, and all nine Kryon delegates also had weapons on their person; projectiles not unlike 20th century Terran firearms. By the time seven-point-two minutes had past, Spock had already calculated three areas of escape, and two points of projectile cover. His priority, if the discussions went sour, would be Jim and Lieutenant Uhura.

 

Unquestionably, discussions did of course go sour, all due to a singular hand gesture from one of the security ensigns, and “all Hell broke loose”, as Jim would put it much later.

 

 

 

 

His Captain is bleeding.

 

He had taken two shots to the lower abdomen, after pushing himself in the way of the projectiles aimed at one of the security team members, as well as what seemed to be a broken nose from smacking head-first onto the hard, tiled ground of the court’s conference room. They lost two of the three red shirts, and by the time they had run out of the room and outside to escape, Jim’s condition had worsened. Spock hypothesises that if the Enterprise does not beam the team up in approximately three-point-five minutes, the Captain will bleed out into unconsciousness. Already, Jim’s breathing is laboured and his movements slow, his grasp on the environment around him shaky, but Jim stubbornly persists despite this, and despite the numerous complaints and badgering from himself and Nyota to _stay still_. But Jim, of course, just waves them off.

 

“’S fine, I’m fine, Scotty will beam us up soon,” he slurs, wobbling slightly where he is crouched behind two pillars of the building the Kryon’s had taken them to for negotiations. Spock purses his lips, shooting out a hand to steady his Captain, earning a sheepish, but grateful smile.

 

“I have no doubt of this, however you must endeavour to keep still, or you will exacerbate your injuries even more, Captain.” Spock watches as a flicker of pain appears on Jim’s face, and then disappears as quick as it came; not before Spock reflected a similar emotional response to it. _Illogical_ , comes the sharp voice in his head, but it does not stop his chest from clenching tightly.

 

Jim shakes his head. “We can’t stay here forever, they’ll arrive with backup and then we really _will_ be – ah! – screwed.”

 

“Because we’re not already?” Lieutenant Uhura reproachful tone voices his own internal retort. Jim only grins in response, slowly shuffling to his feet, Spock’s hand clamped on his bicep, before he dashes forward, towards the side of another building. Spock, Uhura, and Ensign Yavis follow, shots whizzing past them and miraculously missing; splattering the path’s and building’s rubble into their faces, dust sweeping up around them and making it more difficult to navigate the streets. Jim finally collapses as they reach the other building, gasping in pain, and takes out his comm. Spock shuffles closer, encouraging Jim to lean into his body and settle in his grip, calculating that his Captain will fall unconscious at any moment, and surprised that he has not already. He shouldn’t be, really; Jim can withstand _anything_ , the beautiful man so resilient and stubborn, and determined to make sure the last of his crew get out alive.

 

“Scotty, beaming us up would be wonderful right about now!”

 

“Aye, Captain, gimme a second, yer in a better position than before,” comes the Chief Engineer’s voice. Jim groans in a combination of agony, exhaustion, and exasperation, and closed his comm, eyes squeezing tight and opening again, a sharp gasp of pain bursting from his lips, just as the Enterprise’s beam catches onto them, beaming them back aboard and into the transporter room.

 

The last thing Spock sees before the chaos of the waiting medical team and transporter room combined engulfs him, is Jim’s eyes locked on his – bright blue and encased in _fearreliefguiltlovepain_ – one of his gorgeous hands clutching his dirtied science blues, before Jim’s head lolls and he slips into unconsciousness, the bulk of his full weight crushing into Spock. Spock feels a momentary panic, before Nurse Chapel and two other medical staff run towards him, and Jim’s body hurried away to medbay on a stretcher, his blood on Spock’s hands and shirt.

 

 

 

 

(Sometimes, when he is alone at night, and allows his thoughts and feelings to freely blunder about in his mind, Spock wonders when _Captain_ so easily became _Jim_.)

 

 

 

 

Spock has been pacing the hall outside medbay for one hour and twenty-five minutes since his shift ended.

 

While Doctor McCoy had finished the life-saving surgery on Jim, he was still unconscious, and so Spock had not been given permission to see him yet by the CMO, stating that Spock was needed on the bridge, he was still monitoring Jim, and he “didn’t need a hobgoblin hovering over my shoulder, goddamnit!” So Spock had gone to the mess hall and replenished his fluids, and forced himself to eat, robotically downing his soup, before going to his quarters and refreshing. That all took an hour and fifteen to complete, the hurried walk back to medbay taking another eleven minutes. All in all, Spock has spent two hours and fifty-one minutes away from an injured and vulnerable James T. Kirk.

 

This is unacceptable.

 

Something ancient and primal was snarling in the back of his head, _furious_ that he had not been allowed near his t’hy’la (and somewhere else in his head, a voice whispered that he had not actually claimed Jim yet – has no right to call the man that), and that Jim could potentially awake without Spock there to look after and _protect_ him. His stomach clenches, and Spock fights to control his emotions; reign them in and stabilise his reactions, keep them from consuming him whole.

 

The medbay doors open and McCoy steps out, looking directly at Spock, who stops his pacing to await what news McCoy has of Jim’s condition. McCoy sighs rolled his eyes fondly, but there is a small smile tugging at his lips.

 

“Stop walkin’ grooves into the floor, damnit,” he gruffs. “You can come in and see him, long as you don’t disturb him.”

 

The stipulation was unnecessary; Jim’s body needs rest and Spock would make sure he got it; regardless, Spock nods his agreement and walks forward, through the medbay doors, towards where Jim is stationed behind the milky-glassed privacy screen. He steps past the privacy curtain, and his breath hitches; Jim’s unconscious, exhausted face comes into view, and fear and anger curls deep around his gut, anxiety closing his throat, nausea twisting his stomach. He is so overwhelmed by the pure _force_ of all his emotions and worry, that he does not feel McCoy’s reassuring pat as he turns on his heel and leaves Spock alone with Jim.

 

Spock stumbles towards Jim, sitting down in a chair placed next to where Jim lies on the biobed, reaching over to grasp his hand and squeeze it, raising it to his lips and kissing the loose fist. _Please, t’hy’la_ , he thinks, and pushes back the fresh tears that threaten to spill out. He shifts, brings a hand up to the side of Jim’s left cheek, feels the puff of hot air from his nose, reassuring him that yes, James is here, alive, and that he will not leave Spock’s side. He cups Jim’s cheek, before tracing his face with two fingers – a Vulcan kiss; over the beautiful man’s eyebrows, down the ridge of his nose, across his lips, and back over around his cheekbones to his ears. Spock is utterly captivated by Jim, enthralled by him, and so incredibly _miserable_ that the man’s piercing blue eyes do not open to stare steadily at him. It feels wrong, it _is_ wrong; makes his insides churn and shift uneasily, and another wave of nausea rises.

 

When his mother died, he had been distraught for weeks, unable to think past the wave of misery and loss her death had drummed up inside him. And here he was, again, grieving for another one he loves, those turbulent emotions _wrenching_ through him, _wrecking_ him; watching Jim’s youthful, bright face lie cold and blank on the biobed in medbay. He cannot find it within himself to feel shame at his purely emotional, compromised state. It _hurts_ to see Jim so vulnerable, so weakened – and though Jim has gotten himself injured on many away missions, and many times even worse than his current position, he cannot not shake the distress that hounds him.

 

Spock lowers his and Jim’s entwined hands to the bed, laying his own head onto the spot next to Jim’s arm, and closes his eyes, lets the steady beeping of the medbay equipment lull him into a trance, then a deep sleep.

 

 

 

 

Spock next comes to the feeling of someone running their hand through his hair; softly, slowly, up and down and up and down, adding slight pressure when they reach the very back of his head, where the last of his hair trails down and away. Spock knows who it is, and as such, does not move. He would give up galaxies for the simple and carefree touch and affection that Jim shows him on the bridge, during missions, in his quarters – everywhere – but none are as intimate as this one, and it sparks a feeling of lust and love through Spock. Finally, realising that he will eventually need to move, he shifts slightly, allows his body to show the obvious signs of rousal; the hand atop his head freezes, gives him one last, loving stroke, before pulling away, dragging a piece of Spock’s hammering heart with it.

 

He turns in his arms, and rises, catching Jim’s eye. Jim smiles sleepily, so bright and joyful that Spock just _melts_.

 

“Hey,” he croaks, blinking slowly. “Shouldn’t you be on the bridge? I’m sure you’ve got more pressing duties than babysitting me.”

 

“Currently, the most pressing and important duty I should be spending my time on, is in front of me.”

 

Jim blinks once, twice, his eyes widening, and that smile comes back two times brighter, a small laugh bursting from his awed face. Spock finds himself – illogically – feeling lighter. Jim’s face morphs into something more teasing, a fond look twinkling his eye.

 

“Why, Mister Spock,” he drawls. “I didn’t know you cared.”

 

Spock raises an eyebrow. “An illogical statement, Captain, as it is not only my duty as First Officer to care and take consideration of you – but also my duty as your friend.” Jim’s eyes light up yet again at the word ‘friend’, and Spock presses on. “However, regrettably, I must now go and ready for my attendance on Alpha Shift. If you are, perhaps, agreeable to a chess game tonight, at 2000 hours, I would find that a satisfactory passage of time.”

 

“I would love a game of chess,” Jim smiles, and then huffs. “But I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere, Spock; Bones hasn’t cleared me, yet.”

 

Spock inclines his head. “I expect Doctor McCoy will be releasing you to your quarters for rest leave, now that you are in a stable condition and your injuries taken care of. You heal alarmingly quickly, Jim.”

 

Jim brightens at the usage of his name. “I thought Vulcans didn’t feel alarm, Spock,” he teases, and Spock’s mouth twitches upwards.

 

“They do not, Jim, however the alarm felt in question is from Doctor McCoy and his colleagues.” Jim laughs out loud at that, a brilliant and lively sound, and Spock considers his first morning duty accomplished. He stands up from the chair, and gives Jim one last secret smile. “I will see you tonight, Captain.” And he turns and walks out, forcing his legs to move, reminding himself he will see Jim again, and soon.

 

Alpha Shift passes torturously slow. Spock is a man who loves his job – perhaps too much, if the hours he clocks are to say anything – but today it is difficult to keep his mind on his work, and not rush away to curl up beside Jim and hold him until the end of time. He berates himself for this ridiculous assault of emotionalism; he should know better, _does_ know better. Alpha Shift finally passes, and he only just resisted the urge to rush off the bridge, waiting until the Beta Shift crew takes over, before he takes his very calm, very considered leave.

 

He most definitely does not rush to his quarters, wherein he most certainly does not spend almost an hour deciding on what he will wear to the chess match. It is illogical, he reasons. Never before has he felt such a need to change from his Science blues into something specifically for Jim, however now – today – something soft and fragile is pushing at him to do so. He rubs his temples. He will require much meditation after this.

 

Choosing a pair of black slacks, and a simple, black shirt with embroidered Vulcan on the sleeves in gold, he spends the last few minutes pacing around his room, before exiting his quarters and going to stand outside Jim’s, chiming his bell. Their quarters are next to each other, indeed, they share a joined bathroom, but Spock feels uneasy at the notion of entering Jim’s quarter’s that way; it feels like crossing a very carefully constructed barrier on Spock’s behalf, and he has already pushed and redefined so many of the rules he conducts himself by because of Jim.

 

He waits, pushing down any swell of nervousness that dares to rise up, and soon, Jim appears at the door, smile bright and hands ushering him in, brushing lightly against his back as Spock walks past. It is electrifying.

 

“Have a seat, Mr. Spock,” Jim grins, and sits in one of the chairs surrounding the Tri-Dimensional chess set. Spock sits, the game begins, and soon this evening feels like any other, with Spock and Jim recollecting their day, exchanging opinions and queries, and Jim making mischievous comments on his chess movements.

 

Spock soon feels himself relaxing, no longer overthinking about anything – and how could he possibly? This was _Jim_. Jim, who received Spock with an air of curiosity and boundless fondness, who accounted for all of Spock’s needs and quirks, who didn’t berate him for his responses (or even lack of them), who accepted _Spock_ , all of him, and made the Enterprise a warm home that not even Vulcan – with it’s familiar, red dunes and oppressing heat – had been. He eased so, that he lowered his shields, and allowed his uptight body to slacken, and ceased carefully controlling his hand movements and watching where exactly he placed them.

 

Which was then, of course, when he knocks hands with Jim.

 

A rush of _lovelustaffectioncareadoration_ sweeps through him, these feelings disconnected from his own, and his breath catches, loud in the sudden quiet of the room, his eyes snapping up to Jim, who was watching Spock through frozen, wide eyes.

 

“Vulcans are touch telepaths, aren’t they?” Jim breathes. “Shit, Spock, I’m – I’m sorry, lemme just –“

 

Jim stands up from the table that the chess set was placed on, Spock’s blank face following him. A flurry of emotions curls in his stomach, as he observes Jim stammer and backtrack from what has passed. He suddenly realises that he can let Jim back-pedal and deny what happened, maybe convince them both to forget what transpired, or he can do something about it – those mutual feelings, indulge the very Human spark of hope that he feels alight his chest, and –

 

Spock stands up from his own chair, and walks towards Jim, who looks nervous, like he’s ready to run at any moment. Jim, whose hands rise in a placating gesture, bites his lip, as Spock draws nearer. Spock’s gaze drops to Jim’s lips, still caught between his teeth, before flicking back up to meet Jim’s blue eyes. Reaching out, Spock grasps Jim’s wrist in his, and tugs Jim towards him, a hand going to his waist to steady the blonde man. Jim’s breath hitches, and his panic is now gone, replaced with that ever-present curiosity and hope, lips slightly parted as his breaths puff hot onto Spock’s skin. Jim licks his lips once, and Spock’s gone – he ducks his head and catches Jim’s lip, swallowing the other man’s gasp of shock and excitement, slipping his tongue between those pink, parted lips.

 

He’s kissed before. He has kissed men before, and Nyota, during that brief period where both of them entertained the notion of heterosexuality before ultimately coming to the conclusion it wasn’t for either. He understands how it works, fundamentally, but nothing has prepared him for the experience of kissing Jim Kirk. Jim’s now giving it his all, his previous doubt now all but gone, one of his hands sliding into Spock’s hair and the other around his neck, pressing close to the Vulcan and devouring Spock’s mouth; as if he’s a man drowning, and Spock is the air he desperately needs to survive.

 

The image is more than gratifying.

 

Spock grows lowly into the kiss, which in turn makes Jim shudder with pure _want_ , and Spock herds Jim backwards into his bedroom, until the back of Jim’s knees hit the bed and he falls down, pulling Spock along with him. They break for air, and Jim looks at him with _those_ eyes, the ones that show how much he loves and _needs_ Spock, and that’s too much for Spock to witness without the danger of him losing control, so he lowers his head and nuzzles Jim’s neck, leaving kisses and nips as he slowly tugs off his shirt, exposing Jim’s golden chest and abdomen. Jim kicks off his shoes, and wriggles out of his pants, until there’s nothing covering him except his boxers, which are tented enormously. Spock rolls his hips down, moans along with Jim, and kisses him again.

 

“Fuck, Spock, yes,” Jim groans and Spock begins rutting both their cocks together. “Just like that, just like, fuck, c’mon, _please_.”

 

Spock’s next intake of breath is shaky, and he goes back to nipping and sucking at Jim’s neck, before sitting up and pulling his shirt off, throwing it to the side, then slowly unzipping his pants, watching Jim watch him, and finally discarding those, too. Jim sits up slightly on his elbows, looking hungry, and then moves to pull down Spock’s Starfleet grey boxers, gasping and biting his lip as the tip of Spock’s cock protruding from his sheath is revealed. With soft, curious fingers, Jim touches it, glancing up to take in Spock’s face crumbling with pure ecstasy.

 

“Feel good?” A nod. “Good. Didn’t know Vulcan penises were kept inside a sheath. _God_ , you’re so fucking _wet_.”

 

“It is logical to protect them, on a planet with extreme heat and sand,” Spock responds, albeit shakily. “And I am ‘wet’, to use your vernacular, because self-lubrication is necessary for both sexual intercourse, and during… other times. Vulcan’s do not broadcast our anatomy and biology so readily.”

 

Jim huffs. “Obviously, otherwise you’d have half the galaxy racing over to get a good look. Fuck, that’s so hot, I want it inside me.” Spock outright moans at that. “Yeah? You want that too, sweetheart?”

 

“It would greatly please me, Jim, if I were to penetrate you,” Spock says, hips stuttering into Jim’s hand, as more of his cock and lubricant pours out from his sheath. Jim huffs.

 

“Fuck yeah, c’mon, Spock,” Jim shuffles back, grabs a bottle of lubricant from his bedside table, and collapses onto the mattress again, shucking his own boxers (non-regulation, Spock notes, as they are blue and red) off. “Wanna feel you, want you inside of me so fucking bad, been thinking about this for so _long_.”

 

Spock follows him, grabbing the lubricant and slicking up his sensitive fingers, which tingle and make his gasp, and louder still when he slides one, singular finger into the winking pucker of his lover below. He and Jim moan simultaneously, before Spock slides in a second finger at Jim’s demand, and scissors them. He can feel Jim’s lust and desire from this contact with his body, can feel the heat and the pure _overwhelming_ sensation of it all.

 

“Spock!” Jim whines. “God, please, hurry up.”

 

Spock rises up and kisses him silent, still moving his two fingers inside Jim’s quivering hole.

 

“Be patient,” Spock murmurs against his lips when they pull back for air. “You are not sufficiently prepared enough.”

 

“I _am_. Fuck,” Jim squirms, tightening on his fingers. “This isn’t my first time! C’mon, sweetheart, I can take it.”

 

Spock shakes his head, unwilling to concede. Jim still feels so _tight_ around his fingers, and he can sense the slight twinge of discomfort every now and then, and so he shifts, looking for a particular spot, and –

 

Jim’s eyes go wide and he _keens_ , his entire body lifting off the bed as he whimpers and moans breathily, ass twitching down and grinding onto Spock’s fingers, where they’ve brushed against his prostate. Spock crooks his fingers again, receiving a similar reaction, and it gratifies him to know that _he_ is doing this, _him_ to James Kirk, who has slept with more people and aliens than Spock has even met, who is more than proficient in sexual relations and yet here he is, glassy eyed, moaning and clutching onto _Spock_ ’s arm, _Spock_ ’s name tumbling from his lips.

 

While Jim is otherwise preoccupied, Spock drizzles more lube onto his fingers and slips a third finger in between the others, making Jim groan and lust shoot through both men. Jim raises his hand, cups Spock’s cheek, and guides his gaze from where it was watching Jim’s hole greedily swallow his fingers to Jim face, bright and open and beautiful. Spock blinks, Jim pulls him closer, and they kiss, slowly and sensually, before Spock pulls back to stare at Jim’s electrifying blue eyes, kissing him once more.

 

“Are you ready?” His voice is deep and throaty, and Jim shudders at the sound of it.

 

“Yeah, please.” Jim feels like he’s been waiting for hours, they both have, and when Spock finally straightens up, grips Jim’s thighs and rearranges him, and then finally, blissfully, slides in, they both sigh from the pure liquid pleasure of it. Spock curls over his lover, and nuzzles his neck, pulling out and pushing in with deep, slow thrusts that make Jim keen and moan, grapple at the Vulcan’s back to try and pull him in closer, deeper. Spock feels like he’s on fire, like every part of him is screaming to separate flesh and molecule boundaries and just _merge_ with Jim, his ashayam, his t’hy’la, the other half of his soul and without him even realising, his hand is moving to Jim’s meld points. He notices, pulls away but Jim grabs his wrist, startling a gasp of pleasure from him, and looks him dead in the eyes.

 

“Do it,” Jim murmurs, kissing the space between his eyes, and Spock guides his hand to Jim’s meld points, whispers _my mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts_ , and tumbles in.

 

Jim’s mind is dynamic, and _so_ beautiful. It’s an explosion of colour and emotion, all love and adoration and desire, a rush of gratefulness and genuine happiness, and Spock shares the sentiment, pushes his thoughts back towards Jim. And there’s the pure erotica of it all; he can feel himself inside Jim, still moving, but he can also feel Jim inside him – or is that him inside Jim – and their pleasure and minds twist and entwine until one cannot tell themself from the other, and it all heightens under one crescendo, Jim shouting Spock’s name as he comes between their bodies, and Spock moaning Jim’s, releasing his load into the tightness of Jim’s body.

 

Slowly, when they’ve come down, Spock slips out of Jim’s mind, and settles his attention back on Jim’s physical presence, brushing a strand of golden hair from his face tenderly, as Jim cracks open one cerulean eye, smiles lazily at him, rolling over to curl into Spock’s body and nuzzle his face into the crook of his neck.

 

“Jim, t’hy’la, I.” Spock pauses, unsure of himself. He does not know how to explain all the emotion and tenderness that is swirling inside him, eating him alive. But Jim knows, of course he knows, and instead hushes him, kissing him slowly, sweetly.

 

“It’s okay, Spock,” Jim says when they finally pull back after what feels like an eternity. “Me too.”

 

Spock settles, reaching for the blanket at the foot of the bed, throwing it over them both. He presses a soft kiss to Jim’s forehead, before following Jim into a peaceful, content sleep. They’ll have time to figure this out, and figure it out they will. They always do.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are welcomed and loved -- so please! Drop one by! It lets me know that I should continue writing. Come and visit me at my [tumblr](http://www.wcdewilsonn.tumblr.com), I adore new followers and friends :)


End file.
